


Power Dynamic

by Iridogorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, BAMF Molly, Control Issues, Darkish!Molly, F/M, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, Master/Pet, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:13:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: Molly can’t help trying to control the insanity that is Jim Moriarty.  A framework for his mind to lean on, a collar to hold him together, a mistress to keep him mostly sane.Abandoned work- unfinished and discontinued





	Power Dynamic

**Author's Note:**

> I know Molly is so confident in her work, she’s precise and controlled enough for Sherlock to want to work with her. What if that extended to the rest of her personality from the beginning? As the series progressed, I saw how easily Molly was able to see through Sherlock. What if she’d been able to see through Jim the same way? And what if she felt the urge to control him?

Molly Hooper is so controlled. Her precision is a testament to the fact that each body had once been a person, deserving of respect and dignity once they had passed through the final veil. Every form filled out with her precise handwriting, every organ packed neatly away, every body snug in a drawer.

And then she met Sherlock.

Sherlock has no respect for the rhythm and pace of her orderly life, of her orderly morgue, of her orderly lab. He is a riptide, a force of nature, sweeping in and forcing her to submit to his demands for body parts and extra tests and just so much of her time.

It makes her quietly _furious._

She can’t help falling a little in love with this strange man, hoping he will notice something interesting about her.

The only thing he appreciates about her is her work ethic and considerable body of knowledge. Her body of flesh, as he so directly observes, is lacking almost entirely in anything to be appreciative of.

Something deep inside of her burns to punish him.

She gives him only ugly thumbs and half rancid hearts for a week after that remark.

Then, she meets Jim from IT.

She can tell almost immediately there’s something different about him. His meekness is skin deep, and she can’t wait to find out what sort of person lies underneath.

When he asks her out for coffee after fixing her ancient desktop machine with it’s rows of neat folders and sequentially organized Word documents, she runs her eyes down him and does her own light deduction. His stance is firm and grounded, confident, even if his shoes are brand new cheap trainers that sit awkwardly on his feet. ‘He would look better in dress shoes,’ her mind whispers. His khakis are more ill fitting, with too many pockets and too new. Shirt is plain comfortable cotton, but there’s a tan line on his neck where a tailored dress shirt would be. She gets the impression he sheds his clothes like a costume the instant he leaves the stage of the hospital. His shoulders are at odds with the confidence of his stance, bowed and hunched like he wants to take up so little space. His expression is a perfect example of nervous hope, a boy waiting for a response to first date. Rehearsed. Practiced in a mirror until it’s textbook perfect. His eyes are sharp, so much darker than they should be, and she can feel her pupils dilate when she looks into them.

‘This should be fun,’ she thinks to herself.

Smiling, she accepts.

Coffee goes well, if not as interesting as she would have hoped. His soft Irish lilt changes only once, when he sharply corrects the barista who tries to write ‘Tim’ on his cup. His reaction is a little too large, a little too much, for such a small error, and she is starting to get an idea of just what might be lurking beneath the surface. His face smooths back to the gentle character he’s portraying and he explains that he hates being called anything but Jim, bullies at school at all that. He pulls out her chair and doesn’t protest when she cajoles him into trying her rare Ethiopian dark roast, she paid the extra two dollars for the fullness of the flavor. She takes her coffee black and sees him wince at the bitterness before choking out “Oh, yes, that’s…that’s delightful,” before taking a large drink of his extra sweet vanilla latte.

Fluttering her lashes she takes a delicate sip and says, “I don’t mind a mouth full of bitter liquid now and again.”

He accidentally inhales his caffeinated sugar beverage and sputters for the good part of two minutes. She can see this surprise is genuine, and he glances at her sharply while dabbing his chin with a paper napkin.

‘That’s right,’ she thinks. ‘Reassess me, Jim from IT.’

Propping her head up on her hand innocently, she blinks and says, “This has been wonderful, Jim, do you want to do dinner some time next week? I know a very good Indian place not far from here.”

He quickly agrees and sends her a smile that’s a little tighter than she would expect, but the anticipation behind the curtain of his dark eyes is very real.

They don’t see much of each other for the rest of the week, just a quick conformation that yes, Wednesday would be wonderful and it’ll be nice to spend time together again. Their shifts end around the same time, they’ll meet in the foyer before 6pm.

She’s wearing a sensible pair of black pants and a sweater with white cat face sillhouettes on it, her hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail high on her scalp and just a bit of the red lipstick Sherlock had said distracted from the unfortunate way her body was arranged. She’s left her comfortable work shoes in her locker and slid on some low heels to give her a bit of height boost. Her underwear is her best matching set.

He comes up wearing a rather disappointing ensemble of ill fitting olive and black. His shoes, at least, are sleek black trainers and his hair is combed. As he comes closer, she smells cologne just a shade too expensive for his pay grade. He rakes his eyes up and down and she sends him a confident smile.

“You look, um, you look nice.” He adjusts his bag and holds open the door. “You ready to go?”

“I find myself ready to go more and more often these days.” She swishes past him, her ponytail swaying alluringly down her back and she knows what her arse looks like in these pants. He makes a heavy sound in his throat before following right after.

The restaurant is not busy, lit by dim saffron colored bulbs and draped with gauzy strips of gold and ruby fabric to create a more intimate feel. The food is good, and she relishes how they both turn a little red at the spiciness of the vindaloo, taking discreet sips of their lassis before they each eat an entire piece of naan.

He suggests a nearby wine bar afterwards, just a little nightcap you see, he is so enjoying the conversation, you see.

She makes a show of thinking about it before pushing her chest closer to his arm and whispering into the delicate whorls of his ear, “Why don’t we just share a bottle back at my place?”

He stammers for a second before quietly agreeing. He submits to her firm hand, leading him away from he nearly empty streets and back to her flat. She’s wild with anticipation.

Once inside, he compliments her tidy apartment, and her dedication to cleaning because he can barely tell she owns a cat. She keep the place spotless and lightly scented to cover the catbox. He tests the springiness of her couch with one hand before slipping both hands into his pockets and maintaining a relaxed posture, coming over to lean against the island in her kitchen.

Molly has pulled out her best chef’s knife to slice some fruit to pair with the wine and makes sure that he can get a peek. She has a feeling Jim likes the idea of something sharp in her hand, likes the idea that she knows how to use it.

He comes over to lean against her scarred Formica counter, watching her slice an apple into thin wedges, each one exactly 20 millimeters thick. He gives a low whistle and she slides her eyes over to see a look on his face that should not be on someone who works a simple life in IT. His mask has dropped and there’s something very hot behind his eyes, an unhinged look on his face that might be scary on anyone else but looks right at home on his features. He catches her eye and grins with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

She pauses, raises her knife one more time, his eyes going hooded as she silently touches the flat of the blade along his cheekbone, sliding it over his thin face, and he sticks the tip of his tongue out to catch the apple pulp caught on the blade. His pupils are completely blown and his breathing has gone shallow.

She leaves the spine against his lower lip, deciding right there to try something new. Something that will probably expose a part of him he never intended to show her. Something she thinks is going to become very exciting, very quickly.

“Clean the knife.” She whispers.

His face doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact, but he slowly starts to reach for a hand towel on the counter.

Pulling the blade back just a millimeter, she slaps it sharply back against his lip. Not enough to cut, just enough to promise and oh but she senses the shiver that runs down his spine. “Not like that.” Her voice is so firm, so demanding, and she’s willing to bet her life her eyes are completely black with desire. His have lost color completely, dark like a shark scenting blood.

He exposes the entire flat of his tongue, breathing slightly elevated, and she runs the blade over it, both sides, twice. Never cutting, never enough pressure, but they both know Molly Hooper keeps her knives sharp enough to slice right to the artery with no effort if she’s so inclined. When she’s satisfied the blade is entirely clean, she breaks eye contact to slide it back into the knife block and picks up the decorative cutting board with it’s array of cheese and fruit. His eyes have burned a hole in the side of her head the entire time, but she declines to give him more attention. Looking over under her lashes, her pulse quickens to see he’s left his tongue out, his eyes _burning._

With one hand, she gently closes his jaw, his teeth catching his tongue before he slides it along his upper lip and back in his mouth. She puts a little pressure on his lower lip with her nail before withdrawing her fingers.

“Glasses in the cabinet before you, wine is chilling in the icebox. Get them and follow me.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

She starts to walk away, pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder at someone who is definitely not Jim from IT. The way he’s looking at her, he knows she’s more than just a registrar at the morgue. She catches his eye and watches the changes come over his face. He can’t put the mask back on now, she’s satisfied to see, he’s too riled up. Schooling her face into something expressionless and cold, she means only one thing.

_Obey me._

When he rises from the counter, his posture has completely changed. He’s no longer some meek little nerd, the man before her is dangerous. A predator. Her first thought is what would a collar look like around that handsome throat, a leopard on a chain. ‘That there is a very wicked man,’ her mind helpfully supplies for her. Not looking away, he grabs the wine glasses and doesn’t fumble once. Two large steps to the icebox and he has the cold bottle in a very firm grip.

He comes up, stalking her, until his chest is nearly at her back and she’s not changed the angle of her head once. Looking him up and down, she quietly says, “Good,” before turning around and walking back to her living room. There’s a beat of silence, then he follows.

Setting the fruit platter down neatly, she gestures for him to set down the glasses and the bottle.

When she’s settled this silent stranger with the heated eyes on the couch across from her, she holds out the wine and smiles a sharp smile. “If you would do the honors?”

He looks at it and says, in the thickest Irish brogue she’s heard in years, “I’ll need to get a…”

Tilting her head stops his sentence immediately. Her smile is gone and she says, “I don’t think you do. I think, _Jim_ , that you probably have something on you that will get the job done quite nicely.”

His face is expressionless as he pulls a switchblade out of the band of his ugly pants and stabs the cork while she holds the bottle, pulling it out in one smooth motion. Neither one of them flinch at the ‘pop’.

This has turned into something else, very very quickly.

It’s entirely possible this man is much more dangerous than she first thought.

Her sex _throbs_ with the idea of his obedience.

She gives him a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and elegantly pours two glasses.

Handing one to him, he automatically takes it, leaning in and resting his elbows on his knees. Getting his face closer to hers.

Molly’s spine is ramrod straight, her posture impeccable. In control.

“Cheers.” She says in a way that is not a suggestion, holding her glass out at an angle. Red wine like black blood barely moving, her wrist is so still.

His fingers tighten on the stemware, just a little, before he delicately taps the edge to hers. The liquid ripples.

They both take a long sip.

Neither one fully exposes their throat.

He doesn’t flinch from the darkness of it, the draw of the tannins.

Neither does she.

It’s the start of something very, very interesting.

That night they don’t have sex, despite the very obvious erection in his pants and the ruin of her underwear. After she feeds him fruit from her hands, and he only tried to nip her fingers once before she dug the edge of her nail into his lip so harshly he almost bled, and if THAT didn’t get a sharp look of something like desire and something like murder on his face, and they drink their wine, she sends him home.

“It’s a school night, after all,” she winks at him.

His gaze flickers to her mouth as he schools his expression into something neutral and at the same time, not at all ambiguous. ‘I’ve enjoyed this’, his face says.

She feels the words come out of her before she can stop them. “You’ll come back here tomorrow. At 8 p.m. sharp. Wear something more comfortable for you than this.” None of it is a question. None of it is an option.

He nods, so slight she could have missed it, and keeps her eyes for a minute longer than he should before slowly turning and descending the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hoping to get the next chapter out in a day or two.


End file.
